She said, ‘I think the kettle's boiling,’ and Phyllis said, ‘So it is,’ gathered Anna up and leaped to her feet to rescue the spitting kettle, and to make the tea.
Over the years, they had always kept in touch, if sporadically, by means of letters and Christmas cards, but still, there was much to talk about, and details to be filled in. Uppermost, however, in Phyllis's mind was the fact that Judith, at eighteen, was actually the owner of a car. And could drive it! To Phyllis it seemed little short of a miracle; undreamt of. She couldn't get over it.
‘When did you get it? How on earth did you manage?’
In Phyllis's language, manage meant pay for. ‘I can't manage a new dress,’ one said, or ‘We can't manage a holiday this year.’
Judith hesitated. It seemed dreadfully unfair to sit in this mean little cottage, with Phyllis looking so worn, and to talk about money. Here there was clearly so little to spare. But it was one of the things that she was determined to get off her chest. Somehow, when it all happened, it had not been possible to write it down in a letter to Phyllis. Words simply made it all seem so materialistic and greedy. But in the old days at Riverview, Phyllis had become Judith's dearest friend, and most trusted of confidantes, and she didn't want this to change, which it would if untold secrets were left to lurk between them.
‘…it was Aunt Louise, Phyllis,’ she said at last. ‘I never wrote to you about it, because I wanted to be with you when I did tell you. You see, when she died, she left me all her money, and her house…and everything. In her Will.’
‘Oh!’ Phyllis's jaw gaped as she took in this astonishing piece of news. ‘I didn't think things like that happened to real people. I thought they were just like stories in Peg's Paper.’
‘I couldn't believe it either. It took me ages to get used to the very idea. Of course, it's not mine to spend until I'm twenty-one, but Mr Baines, the solicitor, and Uncle Bob Somerville are my trustees, and if I need something very badly, or they think I should have it, then I'm allowed.’
Phyllis had gone quite pink with excitement. ‘I'm that pleased for you…’
‘You're so dear. And I'm so lucky, I feel a bit ashamed…’
‘What's there to be ashamed about? Mrs Forrester wanted you to have it, why shouldn't you? Couldn't have happened to a sweeter person. And she'd have thought it all over, mark my words, she was no fool. Good-hearted lady, I always thought, even though she had a funny way with her. Downright, I suppose you'd call her…’ Phyllis shook her head, clearly bewildered. ‘Life's funny, isn't it. There you were, with sixpence a week pocket money, and now you've got your own car. Just imagine! And driving it too. Remember your mum, like a flustered chicken every time she had to get that little Austin started. Mind, she had reason to be nervy, when you think of Mrs Forrester ending up the way she did. Ghastly, that was. Great fire up on the moor. You could see it for miles. And it was her. Couldn't take it in, when I read the paper the next morning. Couldn't believe it. Mind, she was some dangerous driver. Every soul in West Penwith knew that. Didn't make it any easier, though.’
‘No,’ Judith agreed. ‘It didn't make it any easier.’
‘I worried about what would happen to you. At the time, I mean. And then I thought you'd probably make your home with the Somervilles. Haven't asked about them, have I? How is Mrs Somerville? I was some fond of her, always made me laugh, she did, with her funny ways. I used to look forward to the times when she came to stay at Riverview. No airs about her.’
‘As far as I know, they're all in splendid form. My grandparents died, you know, within months of each other, and though it was sad for Mummy and Aunt Biddy, I think it was a bit of a relief as well. Aunt Biddy spent so much time on the road, driving to the Vicarage to make sure they were all right and not starving to death or anything.’
‘It's a terrible thing, old age. My granny got like that. Living alone and couldn't be bothered to feed herself, or else forgot. I'd go up there sometimes and find not a scrap of food in the house, and her just sitting there with the cat on her knee. I can understand your Aunt Biddy, feeling relief.’
‘She's got a dear little house near Bovey Tracey. I've been to stay there two or three times. But mostly, of course, I'm with the Carey-Lewises at Nancherrow. I'm going back there tomorrow…’ Even as she said this, she could hear the pleasure in her own voice, and feel the smile on her face. Edward. Tomorrow she would see Edward again. She didn't think about him all the time; she didn't brood about him, nor long for him to be there. She was neither lovesick nor moonstruck, but nevertheless, when he sprang to mind, or his name was casually mentioned in conversation, it was impossible to ignore this leap of the heart, this sensation of dizzying happiness. And it occurred to her then, sitting in Phyllis's poor little house, that perhaps the distillation of happiness was being without a person, and yet knowing that very soon you were going to be with that person again. ‘…tomorrow morning.’
‘Lovely. By this time, it must feel like they're your own family. When you wrote and let me know you were going to stay with them, I stopped bothering about you. I reckoned you'd be all right. And then, that young man you met again there…’
Judith frowned. For a moment she couldn't think whom Phyllis was talking about. ‘Young man?’
‘You know. You wrote and told me. That young man you met on the train, the evening you all came back from Christmas in Plymouth. And there he was, at the Carey-Lewises…’
Realisation dawned. ‘Oh! You mean Jeremy Wells.’
‘That's right. The young doctor. Still around, is he?’
‘Yes, he's still around, but stop looking so coy. We scarcely see him now. When he left St Thomas's, he came back to Truro and went into practice with his father, so now he's a busy country doctor with little time for socialising. But sometimes he fills in for his father, if somebody's ill. I had the most dreadful flu last Easter, and he turned up and was terribly kind.’
‘Don't you fancy him any more? You were some taken with him on the train.’
‘That was years ago. Anyway, he's over thirty now. Miles too old for me.’
‘But…’ Phyllis, obviously, had no intention of being fobbed off with this and was intent on pursuing the subject of Judith's love life. But, even with Phyllis, Judith did not want to share the secret of Edward. Casting about for some way of steering the conversation into a more mundane direction, she was saved by the sight of Anna.
‘Phyllis. I think Anna's going to sleep.’
Phyllis looked down at her child. Anna, having drunk milk from a tin-mug and eaten her way through a plate of bread and butter, now had her thumb firmly plugged in her mouth. Her eyes drooped drowsily, long lashes drifting down over rosy cheeks.
‘So she is.’ Phyllis's voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Didn't sleep this morning. I'll put her in her pram. She can have a bit of a nap…’
She rose to her feet, gently cradling the child in her arms. ‘…there's my little love now. Mum'll put you in your pram.’ She opened the door at the back of the room, and stepped down into the wash-house. ‘…have a sleep and your dad will soon be home…’
Judith, alone, stayed where she was. The wind was getting up, piping across the moor from the cliffs, nudging at the ill-fitting window. Nursing her teacup between her hands, she looked about her and decided, sadly, that really it wasn't much of a place. Shabby, thin on the ground, everything she saw spoke of little money and hard times. All was clean as a bleached bone, of course, but just about as cheerful. The floor was laid with linoleum, cracked in places and so worn that its original pattern was all but gone. A washed-out rag-rug lay by the hearth and the single easy chair bulged horsehair from a hole in its faded velvet upholstery. She saw no wireless, no telephone, no pictures on the wall. Only a tradesman's garish calendar, hung from a drawing-pin. The polished brass knobs of the range and the sparkling brass fender were just about the only cheerful items to be seen. She remembered Phyllis crocheting doilies for her bottom drawer, and wondered what had happened to the
se treasures. There was certainly no sign of them here. Perhaps in her bedroom…
But Phyllis was returning. Judith turned as she closed the door. ‘Is she all right?’
‘Fast asleep, little soul.’ She picked up the teapot and refilled their cups. ‘Now’ — she settled herself back in her chair — ‘kept the best to the last. Tell me about your mum and Jess…’
Which took a bit of time. But Judith had brought with her the last letter from Singapore and a wallet of snapshots taken by her father. ‘…this is their house…and this is Jess with the Chinese gardener.’
‘Look at the size of her!’
‘And this is one taken at the Singapore Cricket Club for some party or other. Doesn't Mum look pretty? And here they are swimming. And here's Mum going to play some game of tennis. She's taken it up again, she plays in the evenings when it's cool.’
‘It must be a wonderful place…’ Phyllis leafed once more through the photographs.
‘Do you remember how she didn't want to go? And now she loves it! And there's so much going on. And parties on Naval ships and in the Army barracks. Of course, it's terribly hot, much hotter than Colombo because it's so damp and steamy, but she seems to, have got used to that. And everybody sleeps all afternoon.’
‘And now you've finished school, you'll be joining them! Just imagine that. When are you going?’
‘I've got a passage booked in October…’
‘That's no time. How long are you going to stay out there?’
‘A year. And then, with a bit of luck, University.’ She thought about this, and then sighed. ‘I don't know. Phyllis, I really don't know.’
‘What do you mean, you don't know?’
‘I don't know what I'll do if there's a war.’
‘That Hitler, you mean? He's no call to stop you being with your mum and dad and Jess.’
‘I suppose the shipping lines will go on functioning. Unless all the liners are turned into troop-ships, or hospital ships or something.’
‘Oh, they'll still sail. You've got to go. You've looked forward to it for so long.’ Phyllis fell silent, and after a bit, shook her head. ‘Terrible, isn't it? Everything so uncertain. So wrong. What's that Hitler got to be so greedy about? Why can't he leave people alone? And those poor Jews. What's so bad about being a Jew? No soul can help the way he was born. All God's creatures. I can't see no call to turn the world upside down, tear families apart…’
All at once, she sounded desolate and Judith tried to cheer her. ‘But you'll be all right, Phyllis. Mining's so important. It's bound to be a reserved occupation. Cyril won't have to go and be a soldier. He'll just go on working at Geevor.’
‘Some hope,’ Phyllis told her. ‘He'll go, all right. Made up his mind, he has. Reserved occupation or not, if war breaks out he's going to join the Navy.’
‘He's going to join the Navy? But why should he join the Navy if he doesn't have to?’
‘The truth is,’ Phyllis admitted, ‘he's fed up with tin-mining. His father was a miner, but Cyril never wanted to be one. He's wanted to go to sea ever since he was a little boy. Merchant Navy or something. But his father wouldn't hear of it, and living out here, there wasn't much else Cyril could do. Left school at fourteen, and that was it.’
Distressed as she was for Phyllis, Judith felt some grudging sympathy for Cyril. She couldn't think of anything worse than being forced underground if you didn't want to go. But, even so, he was a married man now, with responsibilities. ‘You mean, if war comes, then he's going to grab his chance?’
‘Something like that.’
‘But what about you? And the baby?’
‘I dunno. Suppose we'll manage.’
So now, a new anxiety. Questions leaped to mind, but one was more important than all the others.
‘Who owns this house?’
‘The Mine Company. They offered it to Cyril before we were married. If they hadn't, we'd still be courting. We hadn't even a stick of furniture, but our families helped. My mum gave us our bed, and Cyril's gran let us have this table and a few chairs.’
‘Do you have to pay rent?’
‘No. It's like a tied cottage.’
‘So…if Cyril goes to war, will you have to get out?’
‘They wouldn't allow me to stay here on my own. They'd need it for someone else.’
‘So what would happen?’
‘I'd go back to Mum's, I suppose.’
‘The house at St Just? Phyllis, there wouldn't be space for you all!’
‘There'd have to be.’
‘Oh, it's too cruel.’
‘I've tried persuading him, Judith. To see it my way. Cyril, I mean. But he's that stubborn. I told you, all he ever wanted was to go to sea.’ She sniffed. ‘Sometimes I think he's praying for the war to start.’
‘You mustn't even think of such things. I'm sure he's not. He can't have any idea of the dangers he'll face; not just the sea, but guns and torpedoes and submarines and bombs.’
‘I've told him all that. But you can't stop a man going off to fight for his country. You can't grudge a man the only thing he's ever wanted.’
‘Well, I think it's terribly unfair. What about what you want…?’
‘What I want? Do you know what I want? I think about it sometimes. Somewhere to live that's pretty, with flowers and a real bathroom. Proper spoilt I was, living with you all at Riverview. It was the first bathroom I'd ever seen, and the water always hot out of the tap, and the smell of your mother's soap. And the garden. Never forget that garden, sitting out on summer afternoons and having tea picnics, and all that. And flowers everywhere. I planted pansies out the front, but there's no sun there. Nothing but wind. And not a scrap of earth out in the yard at the back. I'm not complaining. It's a roof over our heads, I know, and probably the best place I'll ever get. But it doesn't cost nothing to dream, does it?’
Judith shook her head. ‘No. Nothing.’
They fell silent once more, because all at once there didn't seem to be much else to talk about. Everything was just too dreadful and depressing. In the end, it was Phyllis who broke the gloomy spell. She sat back in her chair and suddenly grinned. ‘I don't know what we're doing,’ she said, ‘sitting here like two old men at a funeral.’ And Judith remembered, with love and gratitude, that however dire a situation, Phyllis had always been able to find the funny side of it. ‘Long faces like we were both going out to be shot.’
‘What was it your mother used to say, Phyllis? Don't worry, it might never happen.’
‘And if it does, it'll all come out in the wash.’ Phyllis took the lid off the teapot and peered at its contents. ‘Looks stone-cold and black as ink to me. Why don't I put the kettle on again, and we'll have a fresh pot?’
It was late in the afternoon before Judith finally said her goodbyes and set off on the drive back to Porthkerris. The day had fallen apart. As she and Phyllis talked, clouds had gathered and thickened, rolling in from the sea, bringing with them a drenching mist that spread inland, like fog. Anna had had to be wakened from her sleep and brought indoors again, out of the rain, and Phyllis opened the door of the range, just for the cheer of seeing the flaming coals. Now, the windscreen wipers swung to and fro, and the surface of the twisting moorland road was lead-coloured and wet, a dark-grey satin ribbon winding up onto the soggy moor.
Depressing enough without the weight of concern for Phyllis which now occupied Judith's mind. We've got a house, Phyllis had written to tell her. We're going to be married. And then later, I'm going to have a baby, and it had all seemed so right, so exactly what Phyllis had always wanted and, more, deserved. But reality was a disillusionment, and it had been painful to tear herself away from Phyllis, and leave her, abandoned in that unlovely, primitive cottage, stuck in the middle of nowhere. After they had said goodbye, and she had turned the car in the road and set off on her homeward journey, Phyllis and the baby had stayed in the open doorway of the cottage, waving goodbye, and she had watched their reflections in the wing mi
rror, growing smaller and smaller as she drove away, and Phyllis was still waving, and then the road took a turn and they were lost from sight.
Unfair. It was all grossly unfair.
She thought of Phyllis in the old Riverview days. All of them had loved her, depended on her, and treated her as one of the family, which was of course the reason she had stayed with them, right to the end. Remembering, it was impossible to recall any occasion when she had been either grumpy or ill tempered, and her kitchen had always provided a warm haven of laughter and chat. She remembered walks with Phyllis, picking wild flowers and learning their names and then arranging them in a jam jar for the middle of the kitchen table; and the pleasing sight of Phyllis, crisp in her pink-and-white-striped cotton overall, chasing Jess up the stairs, or carrying picnic teas across the lawn to where they sat beneath the mulberry tree. Most poignant, she remembered the sweet talcumy smell of Phyllis after she'd had her bath, and how her hair fluffed out when she'd just shampooed it…
But getting sentimental was of no use. After all, Phyllis had chosen to marry Cyril, had indeed waited years to marry him. The life of a miner's wife was bound to be hard, and Phyllis, the daughter of a miner, knew this better than anyone. And the baby was sweet, and they presumably had enough to eat, but…the unfairness of it.
Why should Phyllis, of all people, have to live and bring up her child in such conditions, just because her husband was a miner? Why couldn't miners have nice houses like the Warrens? Why should being a grocer be so much more rewarding than being a miner? Surely people who did horrible underground work should get more money than people who had pleasant occupations. And why should some people, like the Carey-Lewises, be so rich, so privileged, so…and it had to be said…spoilt, when a really wonderful person like Phyllis had to boil water before she could wash her dishes, and make the journey across the yard, whatever the weather, when she wanted to go to the lavatory?